Chloe and Doomsday
by xxCerezasxx
Summary: Drabble series featuring different aspects and moments in Chloe and Davis' lives, most will take place during the actual episodes. Implied Chlavis for now. Newest drabbles are AU of Bride. Davis has done something terrible, with beneficial consequences.
1. Transformation and Eradication

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Smallville.**

**The first drabble is set during Davis' transformation into Doomsday during the episode(I'm horrible with the names) where Chloe gets married.**

**The second takes place during Abyss(is that the name?) when Chloe loses her memory in the MRI.**

Transformation

Davis likes Chloe's smile, the bright, cheerfulness the white teeth radiate. The way it tells him that everything is going to be alright, that whatever he is, whatever he's turning into; she's going to help him. When his heart begins to pound and his body hurts; changes, he thinks of her, of the smile, of the…..but then _**it**_ takes over and everything aches, vision blurs, teeth grow sharp and nails long, skin transforms into green……and his last modicum of consciousness disintegrates into the abysmal darkness.

And Chloe is still on his mind, because _**it**_ wants her more than he does.

* * *

Eradication

The memories disappear like snowflakes in the sun, existing for the briefest second, shimmering and visible, then melting without warning. Home movies and snapshots in her head dissolve into darkness, lines of data and green symbols swirl through her consciousness, with a sharp, searing pain, every neuron in her brain is on fire, burning, turning to ash, wasting away until her mind is empty, a vast, looming cavern of missing recollections. She tries to focus, to find anything, locate the phantom memoirs, and all she remembers in the world is Davis.

He's everything she knows and she rushes to him.

* * *

**Please review if you read.**


	2. Desperation

**I do not own Smallville.**

**This is set during the Chlavis kiss in Abyss.**

Desperation

Chloe stares at him, a bright, unflinching gaze, eyes that shine in a spectrum of colors, sometimes spring grass green, winter sky blue, and an icy gray, like before a storm. He moves forward slowly, a whisper of wind against his skin, a faint tickle, invisible fingers raking across his cheeks. His remaining modicum of self control disintegrates into a primal lust and crippling need, soft, warm lips on his, the taste of coffee and sweetness and Chloe. Then exigent hands shove at his shoulders, an angry expression and an angry tone.

A stolen kiss exchanged for a stolen heart.

* * *

**Review if your read!**


	3. Confrontation

**I do not own Smallville.**

**This is set during Bride, Chloe goes to see Davis before her wedding.**

* * *

Confrontation

He's never seen Chloe look more beautiful. The wedding dress clings to every inch of her skin, white fabric outlining the curves of her body, the hour-glass shape of her hips and stomach, the firm swells of her breasts. All flesh he can never have, a present wrapped so sweetly for another, a lovely bride for another man. Her skin and hair glow golden, radiating sunshine, bright grass green eyes and rosebud lips; a figure from an elegant museum painting. Blood is splashed on every surface of the ambulance, bright red, gleaming wetly, staining metal crimson, guts and bones and carnage everywhere. His hands are slick with the substance of life, salty, oxygenated liquid, what is left of a body is strewn in the seat beside him, exposed bone and stringy muscle. He wipes his face desperately on the sleeve of his coat, smearing the material maroon. His mouth is acerbic with the taste of…….the taste _**it**_ craves, hot, bitter copper.

"Davis, I just got your messages, what's wrong?" Emerald shimmers with concern and guilt congeals in the pit of his stomach, reacts adversely to the human remains slowly being digested inside him. Even after the kiss she still cares.

"Nothing." She's stepping closer to the window; the air is fetid with decomposition and blood. "This is a bad time Chloe." He's sitting in a luke-warm puddle.

"You left me eight voicemails, make time." She starts to open the door, the sun begins to set behind her and it reflects brightly off the pools of red.

"I have to go."

Tires squeal and the engine roars, he watches the exhaust fumes make the hem of her dress flutter, ripples of white in the fading sun. He scrubs the ambulance with a frightening fervor, garbage bags that drip and content that squelch wetly when they land in the dumpster. Then _**it**_ brings tremors and incipient transformation, his body aches, fingers warp to claws, teeth elongate painfully, spikes and spines erupt from him in unbearable bursts of searing agony. His thoughts dwindle to dying embers, a fading glow, extinguished within seconds. _**It**_ is finally free, prey is in abundance, the heat and saccharine taste of humans is on its tongue.

_**It**_ finishes the meal quickly, because the girl is its sole objective; the human consciousness that dwells within _**it**_ can't be trusted to retrieve her any longer.

* * *

**Please review, if you read.**


	4. Anticipation and others

**I do not own Smallville.**

* * *

Anticipation

He can sense when _**it**_ wants to gain control of his body. Muscles begin to ache and every limb hurts, an unquenchable hunger engulfing his being, a fire burning in his brain that commands nourishment. Some nights he succeeds in holding _**it**_ in abeyance, raw, bloody steak and ground beef clutched tightly in his hands, red dribbling down his chin, chunks of slick, rubbery, copper flavored meat slithering down into his stomach, revulsion and primal hunger washing over him in equal waves.

Other times, _**it**_ can't be contained within him any longer, and devastation is released upon an unsuspecting world.

Trepidation

_**It**_ dreams of Chloe. In the dark hours of the night his subconscious is never his, _**it**_ runs rampant through what pleasant moments he has left. _**It**_ takes her, claws and elongated fingers digging into sweet, pristine flesh. _**It**_ does what it wants to her, until she _screams_, high pitched and shrill; nails on a chalkboard, wind whistling through branches. Bones break and splinter, and blood erupts in a warm, wet mist, then _**it**_ feasts and offers oozing, hunks of red, human meat to Chloe, smearing her pink mouth with crimson that washes away when tears stream down her face.

Disorientation

When _**it**_ wreaks havoc, Davis looses himself completely. His consciousness retreats to the farthest, darkest corner of their collected minds. Wonderful, warm darkness, floating, another tangent of time, where it's just him and Chloe and the world is perfect. Another life, pleasant fantasies run rampant, a bride that's his, blond haired, green eyed children, a _family_; blithe and content for the first time in his existence. But soon enough _**it**_ finishes and he's wrenched back into awareness; agony as teeth and skin and claws revert back to normality, naked and shivering and laying in a warm, wet puddle of crimson.

* * *

**Review if you read, please.**


	5. AU of Bride Drabbles

**I do not own Smallville, at all.**

**These next drabbles are different from the one before. They're all AU of Bride, so it's like the episode hasn't happened.**

* * *

Deviation

Blood acerbic on his tongue, bathed in warm, wet crimson, his bare skin gleaming brightly with blood, reflecting dim lamplight. He lies in an alley fetid with stale, sour copper, human blood and human decomposition, pavement smeared with red, puddles of maroon litter the asphalt, beginning to congeal and crust. Abject terror, revulsion, and guilt consume him, his stomach heaves and before he can blink hot, burning liquefied "food" rushes up his throat, searing his esophagus. Pieces of meat are visible in pool of scarlet, a glint of bone, a human tooth, enamel gleaming white. A body lies a yard in front of him, he walks to it, blood splashes around his bare feet, lapping like a heated sea of salt and death at his toes. The face is familiar; he sinks to his knees, his skin abraded by the cement, his blood mingling with the flood of crimson. The chest is ripped open, exposed ribs and thoracic cavity, the pericardium lies empty. He vomits once more, because _**it**_ has a sick, sick sense of morbid humor. All _**it**_ has consumed is the poor man's heart.

He feigns surprise in the morning, when Chloe throws her arms around him, sobbing into his chest that Jimmy is dead, warm, wet tears soaking into his t-shirt.

Devastation

Chloe spends the night at his apartment. She sits on his couch for hours, talking, reminiscing about Jimmy, he listens to every word while his insides twist darkly, compunction and shame and a modicum of smug pleasure spiking his blood, a cold, sickly heat coursing through his body. Jimmy is _dead_ because of the creature that dwells within him, a reprobate consciousness separate from his own, content to feast on human flesh, killing just to feel the hot spray of blood on tough, abnormal skin, claws dripping crimson. He wants to tell Chloe everything, emerald eyes glisten with tears and his mouth falls open, incipient explanation on his tongue, bitter and sour like blood; she is never going to forgive him. The words don't come, his esophageal muscles freeze, immobile, voice dying somewhere before his vocal chords. _**It**_ doesn't want Chloe to know the truth, and _**it**_ is now the dominant thought process.

Chloe dresses in one of his old shirts, blue cotton hanging loosely around slim hips and supple breasts. Long, tan legs gleam golden in florescent lighting, blonde strands of sunshine brushed back behind her ears. Warm, salty rivers of tears have transformed to a slow trickle, soft, droplets of shimmering rain that are brushed away with slender fingers. He offers her a mug of coffee, white, wispy tendrils of steam rise from the dark liquid, faint, hoary fingers moving towards the ceiling. She smiles at him, a flash of pearly teeth, tear stained cheeks, perfect, smooth, pink lips approaching his, redolent of mocha and sweetness. A soft hand on the side of his face and he turns away, silken press of skin on his lower jaw.

He kisses her forehead, smoothes her hair, retreats to the bathroom. He splashes, cool, wet water onto his face, and the reflection that flickers in the glass for a brief second isn't his; dark angry eyes and sharp teeth.

Alleviation

"You don't have to do this." Chloe tells him, voice soft and sleepy, jade eyes glazed with the haze of sleep. The Styrofoam cup of coffee he offers her burns hot on his fingertips, searing calloused skin, harms flesh painted and stained with invisible crimson, the slick slip of blood on his flesh that can never wash away. Scorching water over his body, wet flames of liquid silk that lick at him until every inch of epidermis is bright pink, abraded and damaged, but he can still see the blood, smears of red that never fade. There are moments when he wonders if the evidence of his atrocities is apparent to others, if Chloe knows that their every contact taints her. "I can have Clark give me a ride." Jealously boils in his stomach, hot and virulent; _**it**_ clenches his hands into fists; sharp nails press painfully into his palms, half circle shaped indentations.

"It's my pleasure." He watches her slide into the passenger seat of the ambulance, onto the fabric drenched in blood, fetid of copper and decomposition that only he is aware of, felt that has been bleached and scrubbed and gleams scarlet in the revealing sunlight. "You've been through a lot." One month, thirty days, four nights of reluctant mayhem; the taste of sour, stale metal and the crunch of bones, broken and battered, partially consumed bodies to dispose of, dumpsters redolent of rancid flesh.

"It's a job interview Davis, hardly an arduous activity." _**It**_ enjoys the flick of pink tongue along equally pink lips, the gleam of saliva.

"Are you going to work for the Planet again?" His foot trembles and stiffens, muscles twitching, uncontrollable; he regains control and manages to step on the brake just before a crosswalk, a dozen smiling men and women strolling across the street.

"Publishing company. It's not as glamorous as journalism, I know." A flash of white teeth; a slow, nervous fluttering in his abdomen. "Thank you." Hesitant touch of mouth to his, warmth and supple, terse intrusion of tongue, and then the door slams shut quickly.

Lust and joy form a dangerous combination; conflictions between battling minds.

Adoration

The ambulance is redolent of roses, sweet and subtle. A bouquet sits solemnly on the passenger seat, gleaming with beads of dew, blood red petals shimmer with the threat of incipient rejection, droplets sparkling with sanguinity. His heart beats furiously inside his chest, pounding painfully, palpitating with ferocity, pumping trepidation through his body in place of plasma and oxygen. _**It**_ grips the steering wheel in confidence, so hard his palms taste plastic, absorbing molecules of carbon and nitrate, slick and sweat forming on his skin.

"Davis, it's one in the morning." Tousled strands of yellow sunshine, amused and sleepy emeralds, golden flesh aglow in soft, florescent lighting. Chloe yawns, pink lips and tongue, tempting soft and sweetness. "Are you alright?" Guilt flares and _**it**_ tightens his hand, thorns cutting into calloused skin, heated trickles dripping to the floor.

"I wanted to know if you got the job." A genuine grin, white teeth and vulnerability, emotions bright in well maintained enamel; hours of brushing and still blood stains the inside of his mouth, saliva permanently acerbic and crimson.

"My interview was sixteen hours ago." Blithe annoyance flickers across perfect features; understanding shines in grass green eyes. The feel of supple lips is engraved into his memory, heat and silken press of tongue.

"I just got off work."

"And you drove two hours to ask me how my interview went? You must get very bad cell phone reception." Teasing touch and jocose tone.

"Don't insult the man who comes bearing gifts." Long, green stems and scarlet roses reflect in Chloe's eyes, alive and grateful and ecstatic.

"They're beautiful." _**It**_ licks salt and copper liquid from his palm when she buries her nose in red petals.

"Chloe, this morning, when you kissed me, I don't want you to feel like you had to do it. I wanted to give you a ride, you don't owe me anything." Jade shines with compassion and empathy, offense and affection, then he's tasting stale mouthwash, mint toothpaste, a hint of coffee, hot, moist tongue and velvet mouth.

"Pick me up at six thirty tomorrow. Don't dress formal." A lingering kiss and fingers ghost his jaw, feather soft touch.

The door closes with a soft click, familiar tremors begin, _**it**_ wants to celebrate.

Hesitation

Coffee burns hotly on his tongue, bittersweet, mocha liquid, heat rushing swiftly down his esophagus. His fingers tap against the table top, a slow, steady rhythm, muffled taps of skin and clicks of short nails. Chloe catches his eyes and blushes, a faint tinge of pink, flushed cheeks; green eyes flickering with nervousness, flaring bright and jade, reflecting light and radiating vivacity. Their dinner arrives halfway through the semi-awkward silence, a period of quiet where words aren't needed. His new cologne and just purchased shirt, expensive blue cotton with white buttons in the front. He catches a whiff of Chloe's chicken wings, acid and vinegar, light, fully cooked meat. _**It**_ growls in disdain, a low, disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, primal and characteristically _**it**_.

"What did you say?" Chloe glances at him, blonde eyebrow raised, twin emeralds sparkling with curiosity.

"Nothing." She sucks orange sauce off a slender finger, a shy smile, dart of pink tongue.

"I think they got your order wrong. You should take it back." Droplets of crimson drip from his hamburger, trickling red along the lettuce, pooling on the plate, a puddle of maroon on porcelain.

"It's fine, I don't mind." He chews, tasting copper, warm, stale metal, raw, bloody beef squishing between his teeth, an exigent demand for more in his stomach.

"That's how you get mad cow disease."

"I'm a paramedic; I'll drive myself to the hospital if I show any symptoms." He excuses himself from the table halfway through the meal, orders another rare hamburger. This time he eats it completely raw, swallowing chunks, slick, slippery sourness sliding down into his stomach, settling heavily like a lump of lead. _**It**_ feasts and it eats and wet dribbles down his chin, a concoction of blood and saliva, the flavor of overheated pennies.

"Are you okay?" A soft, warm hand touches his, stroking fingers and hot palms.

"I ran into an old friend in the bathroom." Another hour of small talk, pleasantries and mellifluous giggles, pearly flashes of teeth and sporadic kisses.

"Do you want to come inside?" A smooth nose nuzzles his throat, heated breath misting across his flesh. He _wants_ more than he can voice, but he doesn't know if it's him or _**it**_ that lusts and wants and wonders.

"I don't think it's a good idea." His chest tightens, constricting muscles, he doesn't want to leave anymore then _**it**_ wants him to leave; two separate, conflicting entities in harmony for the first time.

A necklace of kisses across his collarbone.

"Are you sure?"

Chloe mouths his Adam's apple, moist contact, and her apartment door closes behind them.

* * *

**Also, I really haven't been getting reviews for these drabbles, and if I don't get some soon, this will be my last post.**


	6. Continuation of AU of Bride Series

**Don't own Smallville.**

**Continuation of the AU of Bride drabble series.**

* * *

Interpretation

Sunlight reflects brightly off golden hair, tan skin gleams in the yellow, morning light. The sun hangs eagerly above the horizon, a shining circle; his shadow elongates and stretches, a long line of darkness as he slips out of bed, soft footfalls across plush carpet. He finds his clothes spread across the living room floor, shirt and shoes and pants scattered across hardwood, crumpled in piles of cloth. He dresses in the new cotton button up, the jeans that unlike every other pair he owns aren't smeared in red, tossed into the garbage after cycles of washing, bleach and club soda, stains that change from crimson to maroon to a pink-orange.

His cell phone vibrates in his pocket an hour later. The ringtone is utterly familiar, song deeply engraved into his memory. He holds the end button down, until the phone vibrates once more, screen growing dark. His eyes sting, a prickle of searing liquid, he wants Chloe _so_ much it physically hurts, a resounding ache in his pericardium. There's an intense bond between them, invisible strings, spanning the miles and miles between them. Everything he feels and everything he wants, everything he knows conflict with one another. _**It**_ wants what he wants for different reasons, dark, sinister motives that sit heavily in his stomach, a solid lump of metaphorical lead.

Later, _**it**_ turns his cell back on, and the words said to Chloe aren't his.

Incarceration

Two months pass slowly. The sixty days are the best and worst time of his life. Chloe and companionship and comfort, warmth of a body beside his in the darkness; soft, heated kisses along his jaw every morning, beckoning him to greet the day. _**It**_ dwells dormant within his body, seizing physical control without the pain of transformation; moments when his consciousness is pushed to the hot, enveloping darkness, when he can feel and hear and see, touch velvet skin and taste minty toothpaste and bitter morning coffee. _**It**_ won't let him leave her, _**it**_ wants what it wants and what_** it**_ wants is what he wants; emerald eyes and strands of golden sunshine.

He goes to visit Chloe at work after his shift, a cup of hot chocolate steaming in his hand; wispy white tendrils that rise and twist like crooked fingers in the air. Clark is sitting with Chloe, on her desk, broad, fucking farm boy shoulders covered in their familiar red cloth, like the man doesn't own another jacket. Rage overpowers him, cripples him, searing his stomach; he doesn't know if the hate combining with every atom in his body is his or _**its**_. Mellifluous voice stops mid-sentence when he approaches, jade eyes meeting baby blue, then locking with his briefly.

"I have to get back to the Planet, see you later Chloe." Slender arms encircle muscles and masculinity. Clark is one of the best men he knows, but he lost his chance with Chloe long ago. "I'm happy for you." A perfect, white flash of teeth, all charm and model good looks, completely _Clark_. _**It**_ clenches the cookie in his left hand so hard it crumbles, chocolate chips smearing brown on his palm and fingers, sticky sweet.

"Hey Davis." A press of soft mouth; touch of slick tongue. "I'm completely swamped right now, who would have thought they'd have the new girl check the next book to be published for grammar errors. It's all about amazingly perfect teenage vampires who just have the most perfect life." Chloe frowns, wrinkles her nose in disdain. "Talk about gagging." Slender, smooth fingers stroke his cheek, a thank you for the beverage. "Clark is going to take me home, but I'll come by your apartment first thing in the morning."

"Okay, have a good night." He kisses her forehead, tastes sweat, smells shampoo, cherries and coconuts and mangoes. _**It**_ fumes dangerously within his body, the familiar ache begins and he loses himself completely. Blood, death, and destruction, the bitter fruits of _**its**_ jealousy spill onto an unsuspecting city. Suddenly there's pain and _**it**_ roars, thrusts him back into the world without warning.

Nude and shivering, drenched in cooling crimson, sitting in a puddle of red, he looks up and sees Clark.

Revelation

Blood coats his skin wetly, an outer epidermis of sticky crimson. His abdomen and chest gleam in the dim, flickering street light, an orange bulb fifteen feet above him that fades and brightens in steady intervals. He smells acerbic of copper, warm, stale metal, muscles trembling and heaving; exertion and cold and vulnerability. _**It**_ has retreated into the abyss of their combined minds, left him alone to face imminent death. Clark stares down at him, concerned and pained oceans of blue. _**It**_ wants him to fight and bite and bash Clark's skull into the wall, until red gushes from beneath dark, ebony hair, perfect eyes that Chloe can love closed for eternity. His sanity argues differently, urges him to succumb to whatever strength or abilities Clark possesses.

"Davis, you're the creature?" Clark asks, voice low and surprised, regret and cold indifference in his tone.

"Please Clark, kill me, I don't want to hurt people anymore." _**It**_ growls in protest, his arms trembling, fingers clenching, nails digging painfully into his palms, a trickle of his own blood joining the maroon on the pavement. "Don't tell Chloe what I was." He doubles over, searing heat and unbearable agony. _**It**_ wants to emerge once more. He doesn't know if Clark can defeat him when _**it**_ uses his body; a human puppet, a marionette without strings.

"I can't kill you." Clark removes his jacket, offers it to him. He wraps the red cloth around his waist; it blends with the blood on his skin. _**It**_ ceases its attempt to gain control, relaxes.

"Yes you can." He needs Clark to, because if Clark is the man Chloe describes him to be, then he'll do what's best for the world.

"You don't understand Davis. I _can't_." Clark won't look at him now, his Adam's apple bobs up and down, swallowing words and swallowing an explanation. "Chloe's already lost Jimmy."

"Because of me." The confession drips from his tongue, a dark, heavy weight lifted from his chest and shoulders, lighter but no less guilty. "I killed him." He slides against the wall, back down onto the cement.

"I know." Clark sits beside him, splashing down into blood, blue jeans soaking crimson.

"Why won't you kill me?" He's never been more grateful for a sense of mortality. "What the fuck do you know that I don't? Why would you let someone like me walk away?"

"Chloe's pregnant." A soft, hesitant whisper, congratulations absent from the simple statement, feather soft and laced with dread.

Now he realizes what _**it**_ wants Chloe for, and it's too late to prevent.

Procreation

Rivers of blood wash from his skin, swirling crimson around the drain; a gurgle as the liquid disappears, like a throaty swallow. Water washes away all evidence, every sin; he can still feel the blood, crusted to his flesh, an invisible layer. Everything in the world is _too_ much; his fist collides with the tile wall, excruciating heat and pain in his metacarpals, bruises and maybe broken bones.

"Fuck!" He cries, his own rage swirling through his body for the first time, anger that is entirely his. He steps from the shower, dripping, droplets of water glistening on his body, sparkling gems of dihydrogen monoxide. _**Its**_ face flickers in the mirror, takes up a permanent residence, staring at him, mocking him. Glass shatters into dozens of shards when his hand smashes into the reflection, long, deep cuts across his palm and knuckles. Blood drips into the sink, a trickle of red, staining white porcelain. He wishes for death in that moment of self pity and guilt, because Chloe's…..with….. His thoughts gradually clear, fog of fury lifting. He's himself and _**it**_ is _**it**_, separate DNA, gametes containing different chromosomes. There's a chance the baby within Chloe is his, a boy or girl with dimples and green eyes, chubby cheeks and little fingers. He wants _his_ child more than he can voice; a life he's created, not destroyed.

"Davis, it's three in the morning, this better be a booty call." Chloe yawns, a soft laugh, redolent of cinnamon; new toothpaste.

"I just…I needed to see you." A warm, familiar body in his arms, face buried in golden hair.

"There's something I need to tell you." Chloe breaks the silence, heated kisses placed along his neck.

"What is it?" He knows and _**it**_ knows, basking in smug pleasure and self-satisfaction.

A shaky, nervous inhale, green eyes meeting his.

"I'm pregnant." Fear and excitement shine in emeralds. "I know we didn't plan this, and you don't have to do anything if you don't want to, but…." Quiet when he presses his mouth to hers, a hand tentatively touching her flat stomach, feeling nothing but harmless, hot skin.

"I'm not going to leave Chloe." He smiles until his cheek muscles ache.

Later, he rests his head on her abdomen, wonders what life is forming inside it.

Gestation

Thirty days of hope and unpleasant expectations. He asks Chloe to move into his apartment, she agrees, and unfamiliar clothing joins his in the closet, a spectrum of colored cloth, yellows and blues and greens, red, purple, the occasional pink. Chloe eats an alarming amount of peanut butter and Oreos, stocks his fridge with soy milk, vegetables, fruits. _**Its**_ stomach churns in disgust and moments of solitude are spent consuming meat, raw, bloody, scraps of animal flesh, beef and pork and the occasional uncooked chicken.

"Davis, Chloe wanted me to bring her some…" Clark barges through the apartment door without knocking, shock and abject horror shaping facial muscles. "What are you doing?"

He swallows the mouthful of steak without chewing, taste of copper, wipes a dribble of red from his lips.

"Eating. It tastes disgusting, but it helps control _**it**_." He tears away a new chunk with his teeth. Anger and venom boiling anew in his blood, fingers clutching the morbid sustenance tighter. "What does Chloe want?"

"She needed me to check her calendar to see what time her doctor's appointment is." Clark is approaching dangerous territory, because this is _his_ and Chloe's apartment now. Clark's name is nowhere in the equation. "I thought you were working."

"I was." Another strip of dripping meat, squelching between his teeth. "Her appointment is at three, _I'm_ taking her." It's his baby or _**its**_ baby, but either way, the consciousness of the father dwells within his mind, thinking and wanting and lusting.

"Okay." Clark doesn't leave, sits on the couch, cushions yielding beneath the weight of his body. "Chloe needs to know."

"No, no she doesn't." _**It**_ licks the remnant blood and flavor of metal from his palms. "This is supposed to be the happiest time of her life."

"And what happens in six months when it isn't?"

"I'll deal with that moment when it comes." Minutes pass in silence, time slowing to a crawl, heat and cologne and awkwardness, a tinge of hatred and a fire of resentment.

_**It **_demands more food but he has to rush out the door at two thirty to pick Chloe up on time.

* * *

**Like I said, I'm really not getting many reviews, so please let me know what you think.**


	7. End of AU of Bride Series

**I do not own Smallville.**

**So I think this is the end of the AU of Bride part of this drabble series**

* * *

Exhilaration

The doctor's office smells like disinfectant, clean and fetid of latex and medication, the sharp steel and plastic of needles. Chloe flips through a magazine, slender fingers turning pages, the crisp, sharp sound of moving paper. _**It**_ lazes apathetically in the corner of his mind, unwillingly dormant, sustaining itself off the raw meat and blood digesting in his stomach, the sour taste of stale copper on his tongue. White walls and white linoleum and a white coat, blindingly colorless as he enters the examination room with Chloe. An internal conflict rages within him while Chloe undresses, clothing sliding gracefully to the floor, golden skin exposed to florescent lighting for a brief moment, then covered by thin material.

"Good to see you again Miss Sullivan." _**It**_ protests darkly when the doctor smiles at Chloe, touches her, glove covered hands skimming across supple flesh. "You must be the father." He nods, a robotic movement, _**it**_ beams triumphantly within him, a crooked smile of elongated teeth. "How about we take a look at your baby." Chloe's still flat stomach is smeared with gel, he watches, transfixed, waiting for the image on the screen to appear, inhuman and vicious, all claws and fangs visible on the sonogram. Instead, there are two peanut shaped forms, barely recognizable as an embryo, little more than a three month old cluster of cells. "Would you look at that." A congratulatory grin. "You're having twins."

The constant concern in the pit of his stomach doubles.

Another month goes by, a bump forms beneath Chloe's shirts, small, almost unnoticeable. A tedium of false happiness settles over his life, a routine of work and worry and Chloe. Nights grow increasingly troublesome, terrifying dreams, rivers of blood gushing from between Chloe's legs, flooding the hospital floor crimson, inhuman infants held in latex covered hands, miniature replications of _**it**_, feeding off doctors and nurses for nourishment. Cold sweats and tears on his skin in the darkest hours of the night.

"I….I don't understand." The doctor stares at the blue screen in disbelief, melancholy lines in the corners of his mouth.

"What is it?" Chloe sits up, glistening emerald eyes, trembling pink lower lip.

"There's only one embryo." A sympathetic glance; open mouth full of explanations. He listens to words, to medical scenarios, knowledge he's learned, facts he knows are untrue. One of the babies within Chloe had been his, and now _**its**_ offspring has devoured it, consumed his green eyed, dimpled, chubby cheeked child.

He holds Chloe as she cries; hot tears burn his skin, searing liquid sadness.

Consternation

The exuberant sparkle in Chloe's green eyes returns as her stomach grows, a pronounced swell beneath cloth. Time is his enemy, his lover, his friend, his fear. Sun rises and sun sets, light and dark, the dreaded day fast approaching. Midnight runs for Chinese and ice cream, chicken nuggets and pickles; food for the offspring of _**it**_. Lois throws Chloe a baby shower, happiness and laughs and gifts, tiny clothes and tiny toys, pink and blue and white. He and Clark build a crib, sullen, quiet, awkward, the dry scent of freshly cut wood, splinters in his skin.

"You have to tell her." Clark growls, sawdust on flannel sleeves, chips of wood in dark hair, cold, judging blue eyes.

"She doesn't need to dread it too." _**It**_ growls back, it takes every modicum of self-control he possess to keep his hands at his sides, from wrapping themselves around Clark's neck, squeezing until life vanishes and anger flourishes, a violent, aggressive flower.

"How are you going to explain to her when her baby comes out a monster? A mother's love is supposed to be unconditional, but there's a limit Davis." He continues to sand the wood, automatic movement of muscles, wearing away layer after layer.

"Would you want someone to tell you what you have growing inside you?"

"Yes, I would." White paint splashes onto wood, dripping, running over sides, smearing into an even coat, a glossy sheen. "What if it kills her?"

"It won't." He'll share his body with _**it**_ for eternity if _**its**_ child will only spare him Chloe. His dreams of fatherhood and domesticity are ruined, shattered glass on the unrelenting pavement, crunching beneath fate's feet.

"And if the baby is….like you?"

"You'll have to kill it." _**It**_ won't let him take the _**thing's**_ life, but if Clark cares for Chloe, he'll do it.

"It's beautiful!" Chloe cries, a warm kiss on his cheek, his jaw, silken press of lips and wet slip of tongue. She hugs Clark, slender arms around broad shoulders. He stares at her stomach, seven pounds of future death and destruction and doom lurking just beneath the skin, feeding and living and growing. Three weeks until Chloe's life is ruined forever. Suddenly, emerald eyes widen, a hand moves to her abdomen, another grips his shoulder.

The destruction of his happiness is coming sooner than anticipated.

Expectation

"We can't take her to a hospital." He says to Clark, exigent tone, a harsh whisper.

"Lois is already taking her to the car." Clark responds, heated breath across his ear, hot, unpleasant, redolent of honesty. "Drive on the side road, I'll take care of everything." A rush of wind and when he turns Clark is gone.

"Get in the car _dad_ before I drive the damn thing myself." Lois puts hands on his shoulders, shoves him into a leather seat.

"For a paramedic, you don't seem to understand the gravity of this situation." Chloe laughs, a forced sound, irritation and dry amusement. "That baby won't drive itself to the hospital after it's born."

"Sorry." He strains to smile, white teeth and aching cheek muscles. Clark climbs into the backseat beside Lois, nods at him. "I love you." He kisses her, tastes frosting and apple juice, chocolate and sweetness. "So much."

"I love you too, _drive_." He grips the wheel, absorbs the flavor of leather and plastic through his skin, mouth dry and acerbic with worry. Six miles of road, blur of trees and cornstalks, then there's a loud pop, hiss of escaping air, the car skids to a stop, Chloe smacks the dashboard with her hand and curses loudly.

"Shit, there's glass in the road, all your tires are flat." Lois holds up a gleaming shard, Clark meets his eyes, solemn, guilty.

"Clark, maybe you should run back to the farm, get your truck?" There's an urgency and secret understanding in Chloe's voice, one he doesn't understand.

"I'll do it Chloe, Clarky here may be muscular, but he isn't built for long distance." Lois darts off, sprinting towards the house far off in the distance. Chloe screams, short and mournful, _**it**_ must be tearing her apart.

"Davis, I don't think the baby is going to wait for Lois to finish her cardio." Chloe's nails dig into his arm, drawing blood, a warm trickle down his bicep.

Ten minutes and five curse words later, crimson stained fingers and a soiled red jacket, _**it**_ comes into the world.

Misinterpretation

The baby in his hands cries loudly, shrilly, pink skin and human features. Awe and unconditional love are powerful emotions, weights on his shoulders he's powerless to remove, crushing and debilitating and utterly wonderful. Chloe laughs, light and mellifluous, hands outstretched; strands of golden sunshine plastered to a sweaty forehead; exhausted jade eyes that sparkle with eagerness and adoration. She cradles their son close, bares her breast, exposing supple skin. He waits for a painful cry from Chloe, sharp teeth and little claws, instead there's only content sucking noises, soft, breathy swallowing, tiny fingers.

"Good job Chlo." Clark praises, Davis lets his eyes fall to Clark's hands, surprise flitters through him briefly, because Chloe was holding Clark's hands hard enough to draw gallons of blood and the flesh is unbroken. "He's beautiful."

"He is." Tears of joy sting his eyes and his throat tightens; unbridled happiness. He kisses her cheek, tastes salt and sweat and physical weariness, ten minutes of arduous effort. Chloe only takes a little hand in hers, nuzzles round, chubby cheeks. His mind is still reeling, turning in endless circles, because the baby is _his_, his son is actually _his_. _**It**_ may control him and _**it**_ may terrorize the city but _**it**_ will never be the father of his and Chloe's child.

"Crap, don't tell me I'm too late." Gravel crunches beneath tires, Lois rushes over to examine the infant wrapped in Clark's jacket. "Look at him Chloe, half of Davis' DNA and he's actually adorable." _**It**_ is angry at the loss of offspring and _**it**_ wants to wring Lois' neck until the life drains from her brown eyes, then tear her flesh away in a warm mist of crimson. "Does he have a name yet?"

"I just gave birth four minutes ago Lois." Chloe smoothes wispy strands of blond hair down with her fingers, covers a small forehead in light kisses, showering the world's newest occupant in well deserved affection. "You can name him Davis." He doesn't have a name, is…_was_ thoroughly detached from the life that was intended to be an extension of _**it**_.

"Eli." He whispers, voice soft, esophageal muscles tightening with emotion. He has a _son_ and all the atrocities he's committed don't seem to matter.

"Eli." Chloe repeats, approvingly, switching their child to her right breast now. "As much as I've loved playing doctor with you Davis, I'd like to go to the hospital now."

Realization

Two and a half weeks of domestic bliss whirl by, diapers and crying and sleepless nights, dark circles under eyes and the clean, sweet smell of baby shampoo. Adjusting to happiness is a difficult, arduous task, _**it**_ wants to feat and pillage and destroy; he wants to hold Eli and sleep. Conflicting interests and conflicting minds dwell within a single body, during the daytime he works, stopping bleeding and saving lives, and at night blood runs in red rivers of copper and death follows _**it**_ like a morbid shadow.

Darkness permeates their bedroom, complete blackness, silence for the first time in seventeen days. Soft, content gurgles and peaceful sighs drift through the baby monitor; the most beautiful noises he's ever heard. A hot, silken body curls against his, redolent of perfume and breast milk and coconuts. He's half asleep, drowsy and warm beneath the covers, when Eli whines, close to crying.

"Mmm, the baby…" Chloe yawns, heated breath on the side of his neck.

"I'll get him." Eli doesn't need to eat for another hour, he needs to make up for hours when _**it**_ stalks the city and Chloe's left alone. His son grows quiet in his arms, cooing, staring up at him with big green eyes. He sits with Eli in the rocking chair, a steady creak of wood, humming low in the back of his throat.

The tranquility and parental bonding is shattered like glass when Eli starts to cry. He rocks harder, with a desperate exigency, but the infant continues to scream, loud and shrill, small mouth a perfect circle. Little muscles tremble and tiny hands contort, he knows the signs, comes to a horrifying realization. He clutches _his_ son close and watches baby-soft skin transform, fangs sprout from a toothless mouth, sobs of incredible, agonizing pain that is already engraved into his own memory. Love and tears sear his heart and face as he holds what is and isn't his son, _**it**_ has passed on a dangerous allele but _**it**_ hasn't won because he loves Eli. In the morning, sunlight shines in through the window; the dawn brings about the infant's return to human form but doesn't instill relief.

His son is just like him, and the world faces perpetual destruction.

Fin?

* * *

**Reviews would be nice.**


	8. The actual end to the AU series

**I do not own Smallville, at all. **

**Warning:Character death!**

**Reviews would be appreciated.**

* * *

Domestication

Eli gurgles in her arms, warm, tiny fingers explore her hand, skimming clumsily across her palm. Her baby coos and sighs in-between hungry, breathy, swallows; small mouth working in sucking motions, drawing nourishment from her body in an action she never knew could generate such a feeling of closeness, overwhelming affection. She wonders how the hell her mother could leave her as a child if this is what being a mother is like every single day. Eli is the little man she loves most in the world, silken blond hair and big, green eyes and soft skin that always smells of Johnson & Johnson shampoo.

"There's my boy." Davis walks through the bedroom door, lays a hand on Eli's head; an odd gleam in his brown eyes. It's been three months since Eli's birth, two and a half months of waking up for one and four a.m. feedings to find Eli cradled in Davis' arms, clutched almost desperately against a broad chest. "How'd your day go?" A warm kiss on the side of her mouth, the scent of blood and sweat and latex. "Anything unusual happen?" There's a strange inflection in Davis' tone, as though he expects Eli to do something truly remarkable despite his age.

"Eli spit up, I wouldn't call that unusual."

"Is that all?" Davis takes their son, cuddles him, nuzzles a tiny nose.

"No Davis, he wrote his first article for the Planet today, it had a few grammar mistakes, but he is only three months old." She laughs, pulling her shirt down, covering her breasts. "He sleeps, he needs his diaper changed, and he eats, a lot."

"Did someone keep mommy busy?" Eli's eyes flutter shut, a little thumb makes its way into his mouth.

They watch Eli sleep and later when the lights are off there's only heat and propinquity.

Explanation

Chloe leaves him and Clark alone with Eli one Saturday morning; the sun shines brightly outside, reflecting golden off blond hair, warm and pleasant and illuminating.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay? Lois is capable of shopping for shoes by herself." Chloe half begs half questions, holding Eli close, kissing chubby cheeks and nuzzling a tiny nose, attached and affectionate like Eli needs. His son has a darkness lurking within his body, one he understands, and there are times when all that keeps him sane are the pleasant, smiling faces he comes home to.

"Go on, have fun." He has to pry Eli from loving arms, balancing the warm, soft toddler on his hip.

"Bye bye Eli." Chloe kisses Eli on the mouth, the chin, the forehead, receiving happy giggles.

"Bye mama!" Eli waves a little hand vigorously, shouting two of the thirty words he knows. The one year old can say good morning and good night, yes and no, certain foods and colors, dog and cat, and mom and dad. Before his son he never knew that words could sound so beautiful. "Hi oooncle Lar." Clark lifts Eli up, tickles his stomach, inciting more delighted laughter.

"Hey buddy, wanna go swimming in the lake?"

"No." Eli cries exuberantly, with a smile, embracing Clark's neck to the best of his ability. _**It**_ tries to procure control, but he clenches his teeth until he tastes blood, sour copper, and watches Clark rub sunscreen onto Eli's smooth, baby-soft skin.

"Are you coming Davis?" He wonders how Clark can even ask the question. Eli is _his_ son, not Clark's, never Clark's.

"Yes."

The weather is warm and the air is redolent clean water. Eli splashes in the shallows, droplets glistening in the sky like diamonds, jewels raining back down. Clark sits with Eli in the ankle deep liquid, and every grin directed at Clark is a sharp arrow in his heart, a stab of jealousy for _**it**_.

"It's almost time for his nap Clark." He picks up his damp toddler, and his shirt absorbs the excess moisture.

"Chloe says he takes it at one."

"I'm going to have to give him a bath before I put him to bed." He sets Eli back onto the grass when Clark scowls at him.

"Why do you hate me after all I've done for you? I'm keeping your secret; don't you think I want to tell Chloe what you are? What her baby almost was?" Clark is angry and he's angry and his hands want to squeeze and strangle until the fury in his heart fades. "I work for the Planet Davis; I know what you do at night when you can't control it."

"That isn't my fault." He growls, low and deep, he leans down for his son and the breath is sucked from his lungs when Eli isn't by his feet. "Eli!" The blond one year old is running on unsteady, wobbly legs towards the edge of the lake, dirt protruding five feet above the surface of the water, the closest thing to a cliff on Clark's farm. His blood runs cold, because his salvation is only three feet from plunging into chilly, liquid darkness. Even as he runs he can't help but think of how morbidly ironic it is that his world will begin and end with the same person.

There's a rush of wind and before he can blink Eli is cuddled contently in Clark's arms.

Fabrication

Normalcy doesn't exist, everyone everywhere is tainted. Davis realizes this as he snatches Eli from Clark, holding the warm, soft toddler in his arms, chubby hands and sticky fingers playfully tracing the lines of his jaw. Clark has always been the shining bastion of human perfection, pleasant features and a decent job, _human_ skin and eyes that now, aren't as typical as he once thought. Clark is what he can never be but he's infected, trace amounts of green meteorite coursing through his blood, molecules of rock mutating his DNA. Clark has abilities, he's one of the people Chloe is trying to help and he suddenly understands her reason for such great compassion towards super powered beings, because her best friend is one.

"So you've been a meteor freak this entire time?" He snarls, low and primal, a deep growl of irritation in his throat. Eli whimpers at the noise, hides his face in the crook of Davis' neck. _**Its**_ rage and fury are released when his own emotions run rampant, destroying inhabitations and common sense like _**it**_ tears apart bodies and buildings; hot sprays of blood and the powder from concrete.

"Yes." Clark's voice is composed, steady, monotone. His muscles begin to ache and spasm, in wroth rather than transformation, bitter words and bitter sentiments on his tongue. Eli begins to cry, warm, salty years on his skin, and he gains a modicum of equanimity after a forced swallow.

"And you're the "red-blue blur"?" Clark tries to save the lives _**it**_ takes and he respects him for it, hates himself and _**it**_. All the good deeds in the world will never erase what he's done, for it is said that one innocent life lost is permanent damage. His son continues to sob and he makes soothing sounds, steady, small bouncing motions, kissing a baby soft forehead and murmuring comfortingly.

"I am."

"How noble of you." Invisible venom drips wetly from his mouth; _**its **_vernacular poison. "It's good to know my antithesis exists somewhere." By day he does good and by night _**it**_ hunts, feasting on tough, chewy flesh and copper blood. If Eli is his sin and his salvation then maybe Clark can be his redemption, right his wrongs and salvage from the ruins _**it**_ leaves behind; scatter the seeds of life among the ashes of _**its**_ deadly fire.

"Ome dada." Eli demands, one big, solitary tear rolling down his cheek, lower lip trembling.

"We'll talk about this later."

When Chloe returns his heart throbs painfully as Eli stretches his arms out to his mother, grabbing tiny fistfuls of her blouse, clinging to her in desperation, happier to be away from him then he's ever seen.

Immobilization

Clark stays with him in the apartment while Chloe goes to the Planet to review one of Lois' articles. They sip cold, bitter beer as Eli plays on the floor, clumsily stacking blocks and knocking them over, giggling with delight when the colored squares tumble to the carpet. He hates beer, the sour aftertaste that lingers on his tongue, a dull, acrid flavor, weaker then hard liquor. His experimentations to hold _**it**_ in abeyance have produced strange, hopeful fruits. Scotch or whiskey or tequila every two hours are helpful. The amber liquid burns his throat, sears his esophageal muscles, a fire in the pit of his stomach when it settles, sitting in the lining like lead. When the world is slow and hazy and unfocused _**it**_ is dormant, lazy and content, torpid like _**it**_ is after a repast of human flesh. The alcohol destroys his liver and hinders _**its**_ dominance, but _**it**_ still seizes control of his muscles on occasional nights and he wakes wet and painted with red copper; a morbid, moving canvas. He _needs_ to keep it from resurfacing for Eli's sake, his latest attempts have failed and he doesn't know what else there is to try.

"You don't have to be here." He announces, draining his bottle, watching Eli chew curiously on a red block. "Why are you here?" He and Clark are never going to be best friends.

"You shouldn't be alone with Eli." Clark waves to his, who waves back, blows a sloppy kiss. "You could hurt him."

"I would never hurt _my_ son." He won't, it's his newest mantra, what he tells himself every time the excruciating pain begins, because Eli is his son but Eli is _**its**_son too. _**It**_ has no emotions, only a sense of possession, and Eli is so deeply wound into _**its**_ mind that he _has _to be safe, because if Eli isn't then no one in the world is.

"Can you guarantee that?" He wants Clark to leave, grips the cool, glass bottle in his hand so hard it cracks, shards cutting into the soft skin of his palms, trickles of red dripping onto his pants.

"I think I can." He isn't sure and _**it**_ laughs, a low, dry sound emitting from his throat. Eli stares at him with round, frightened green eyes, and Clark raises an eyebrow. He can feel the ache in his skin and Clark's gaze turns to his hand, where agony erupts and a spike protrudes from the bones, cracking calcium based metacarpals.

"I'm taking Eli." A rush of wind on his face and then Clark is holding Eli, tickling his son's stomach, a hand on the toddler's back.

"Don't…" His body spasms; the taste of metal is on his tongue. "I…I can…" He _can't_ control it; he's a marionette awaiting a tug of his strings.

Clark goes out the door and the stirrings on transformation cease; _**it**_ has no intention of hunting.

Manifestation

His mind is thrust from comforting darkness. Pain singes his neurons, sets them ablaze with imaginary fire. When he opens his eyes his skin is free of blood; a rarity, but cool air wafts across bare skin, raising goose bumps and causing shivers. Chloe is watching him and his blood turns to powder, stops completely in his veins and arteries. She _knows_ now and his world is going to fall apart, and even if it doesn't, she will never look at him the same way again.

"Good, you arrived sooner than I expected." Chloe's eyes are dull, with dark circles; monotone voice.

"Chloe?" He asks, finding a pair of boxers on the floor, not entirely naked anymore but he's never felt more vulnerable.

"In the flesh, so to speak." A mechanical smile, white teeth without emotion; like the gleam of cold steel. "Get dressed, we're leaving." Chloe isn't herself, dry and stoic, green eyes a soft silver color.

"Chloe, what's wrong with you?" He puts his hands on slender shoulders, touches her face, brushing his thumb across smooth flesh.

"Chloe doesn't exist." She grips his wrist, hard, steel-like fingers, bruising his muscles, close to cracking bone, snapping his radius as though it is a pencil. Something isn't right and he can't move his feet, his body immobile, still under the steely, unflinching glare.

"Where's Eli?" He stares down the dark hallway, shrouded in blackness. He can't hear Eli crying and he doesn't know if it's a good sign or a bad one.

"The baby?" Whatever is inside Chloe grins again, maliciously amused eyes. "I'll go get him." Now _**it**_ won't let him move, _**it**_ is showing deference for the first time. "Say hello to your father." Eli is half asleep, groggy, rubbing sleepily at his big green eyes, trying to wrap his arms around Chloe's neck and drift back to sleep. Chloe sets Eli down on the carpet; his son begins to cry, tears rolling down his face in clear, salty droplets.

"Chloe, whatever is going on with you, I can help you. I know what it's like to have something inside you that you can't control. You just have to fight it."

"You may retain some modicum of control, but Chloe Sullivan does not. My intellect is superior." Horror dawns on him when he realizes that Chloe is truly gone, because Eli is crying and reaching his arms up for her. No mother is capable of ignoring her sobbing child if she has the opportunity to soothe him.

"I love you Chloe, I promise that…."

"Please, don't waste your breath. Your pathetic "feelings" for me, they're just part of your programming. You were created to be attached to my vessel." Chloe cups his cheeks with one hand, nails digging into his skin, blood dripping down his jaw.

"That's not true. I love Chloe, we have a son." He wants to pick up Eli so badly his heart aches.

"You have a "son" because I allowed you to. He's far more efficient than either of us. Your abilities, my intelligence, with the control over his transformations and sans the need for a human host. With the proper instruction" Chloe laughs, low and hollow, a metallic sound, electricity surging through cables. "He will do far more destruction then either of us can hope to accomplish."

"Mama." Eli's lower lip is trembling, chubby hands tugging at the leg of her jeans. "Up peas." For all the mental superiority the thing in Chloe is claiming Eli possesses, his son appears to be a normal one year old.

Chloe lifts Eli into her arms, cuddles him, places a kiss on his cheek, feigning affection.

"It's time for all of us to be going."

Procrastination

The world rushes by with remarkable speed. One of Chloe's hands is on his wrist, unyielding, icy fingers holding it tightly. He blinks and suddenly the movement is finished, he's standing in snow and he can vaguely feel searing cold on his bare feet, numb but not unpleasant. His breath crackles in the air, rising in wispy white tendrils. Eli nuzzles his face in Chloe's neck, clutching little fistfuls of her blouse, drowsy and content. White crystals shimmer above him, around him; like pieces of ice that will never melt. Chloe releases his wrist and touches one; they all turn to black, the color of ink, shining sinister.

"Where are we?" He tries to pry Eli from Chloe's arms; _**it**_ resumes control of his muscles.

"Nowhere you need to concern yourself with." A dry, monotone voice; expressionless, the mechanical working of facial muscles.

"Ome mama." Eli yawns, a hand on Chloe's face, another on her collarbone, little fingers tracing patters on smooth skin.

"I'm not your mother." Eli's lower lip trembles as he stares at Chloe, understanding sparkling in big, green eyes.

"Dada!" Eli reaches for him now, straining, slaps at Chloe's chest. Chloe only holds Eli tighter; his son stiffens as Chloe kisses him in a parody of maternal affection, cool lips and unnaturally pale skin.

"Don't hurt him." He begs, pleading, his face reflecting in metallic eyes.

"I utilize my creations, I don't destroy them." Eli is shivering in fear and discomfort, still reaching for him and _**it**_ won't allow him to comfort his son.

"What do you want with me?" Eli cries, long and loud, hiccuping sobs. He _can't_ say a reassuring word and it's ironic that he only feels completely vulnerable when he's with Chloe.

"It's it obvious?" A pause, a thumb wipes tears from Eli's cheeks. "You're going to destroy the world."

It's his worst nightmare and he isn't sleeping, there's no possibility of waking up, drenched in sweat but safe beside Chloe in bed.

"I won't do it." _**It**_ may have control in the night but the days are his. He'll kill himself or he'll stop himself, whatever is necessary to save the six billion people _**it**_ considers prey.

"You say that like you have a choice." His feet move without his permission. "Twelve days in your pod and your human side will cease to exist."

He's enclosed in crystal and the last thing he hears before sleep overtakes him is the sound of Eli crying.

Variation

Day 1: Snow begins to build on the outside of his crystal case, frosty white that warps outside images. Fantasy and reality merge into one, because he thinks he can hear Clark and he swears he sees the blurry outline of a red jacket.

Day 2: His heartbeat changes. Slow, slow beats that become less and less frequent. He doesn't _feel_ any different, but then the sporadic beating ceases completely and he's still alive.

Day 3: Claws replace hands; he can't stop thinking about his family, matching blond hair and emerald eyes. He's never going to see them again; Chloe no longer inhabits her own body; Eli is going to grow up without affection. _**It**_ is stronger then it previously has been, growing and evolving and waiting. Eight more days and he'll vanish from the realm of the tangible.

Day 4: Bright, white sunlight shines on his skin, warm and wonderful and _alive_. His cage is gone and Clark is standing before him with Eli on his shoulders.

"Dada!" Eli smiles, dimples and the occasional pearly tooth.

He can only smile and hug Eli close, soft, heated, yielding body against his bare chest, small, strong arms around his neck, a clumsy, sloppy brush of a tiny mouth across his cheek.

"Where's Chloe?" He asks; the taste of metal in his mouth, a sour lump of dread in his stomach.

"In Smallville, she's back to normal."

He begrudgingly allows Clark to run them home and when the wind stops rushing by his ears and land is no longer a blur; the anger swirling in his veins resurfaces.

"It took you four days to realize something was wrong?"

Restoration

Eli cries for him early in the morning, faint, golden streams of sunlight illuminating patches of white carpet, reflecting yellow off blond hair. It's the first time since Eli is capable of vocalization that his son doesn't call out for Chloe, reach for his mother and curl strands of bullion hair around his small fingers. He kisses Eli's cheek, can smell Johnson & Johnson and bananas mingling together, fresh and sweet and a hint of stickiness. He brushed Eli's teeth before putting the toddler to bed and how banana is on Eli's skin is a mystery. Eli is warm and soft and squirming in his arms, babbling contently, chewing on his fingers, slurping cheerfully around them. His son's happiness vanishes and tiny muscles stiffen, Eli clings to his neck and hides his face in Davis' shoulder when Chloe attempts to kiss Eli's forehead, smooth down stray strands of silken hair.

"No." Eli murmurs, shaking his head vigorously, slapping exigently at Chloe's hand as fingers stroke along chubby cheeks. "No mama. Mama all gone." Eli's terrified and he can feel the frightened trembles. Chloe croons and whispers sweetly, comforting sounds and reassuring words, but Eli whimpers.

"Mommy's right here Eli." He doesn't know what occurred while he was locked away in his crystal cage but Eli won't look at Chloe, clutches him like the world is ending.

"Come here sweetheart." Chloe takes Eli without permission, Eli strains for him, reaching desperately, and Chloe only cuddles him closer, holds the wriggling one year old against her chest. "Shh." Eli goes limp, slowly sits up, staring right into Chloe's eyes, green on green, small hands resting on either side of Chloe's face. "It's me." Chloe nuzzles Eli's nose; the toddler smiles, plants a wet, clumsy kiss on Chloe's lips, his mouth in the shape of a loose O, weakly puckered.

"Lo oo mama." Eli grips fistfuls of Chloe's shirt like he used to.

Hours pass and Eli lies between them in bed, crawling and playing beneath the covers, tickling their feet and stomachs, peeking out from underneath the blankets, laughing and giggling before disappearing once more.

It's almost eleven when they finally go into the kitchen and Eli sits happily on Chloe's lap, messily eating spoonfuls of yogurt.

Assimilation

Chloe takes Eli to work with her for the first week after the incident. On his lunch break he joins them, carrying coffee and sandwiches and potato chips. Eli is always sitting in Chloe's lap, coloring on sheets of blank paper with crayons as Chloe types on the computer, green eyes glued to the screen; transfixed in a healthy, admirable way, a gleam of accomplishment rather than complete and utter understanding. Eli smiles at him, small white teeth and dimples, and he stops his son from sticking a red crayon into his mouth, gnawing on wax.

"Don't eat that sweetheart." Chloe laughs, half hearted scolding, letting Eli eat the whipped cream from the top of her latte, coating his mouth and cheeks and chin in sticky white. "How has your day been going Davis?" Chloe sips her coffee and he watched the minute contractions of her throat muscles as she swallows, the shine of gold in her hair, vibrancy in her jade eyes. The steel and mechanics are gone, flesh and blood and emotion returned.

"Fine." Blood and injuries and a warm drink of stale copper, an empty donor blood bag under the front seat. He sits in the chair beside Chloe's desk and examines Eli's scribbles, lines of red and blue and green across white, connecting and overlapping; hardly a masterpiece, but he's going to put it on one of the ambulance walls, and in the paramedic break room back at the hospital. Eli crunches on Lays potato chips and he uses a napkin to wipe the salt from his son's fingers. Normalcy is slowly creeping back into their lives. Dread hangs heavy in the back of his mind, however, because _**it**_ hasn't surfaced in seven days and he _knows __**it**_ is stronger than ever before.

Later, he opens his eyes and finds himself in his living room. He can't remember leaving Chloe's office, can't remember anything. _**It**_ is now capable of taking him over completely, without transformation. He's lost an enormous chunk of time and there isn't even the taste of blood or human flesh on his tongue.

The light on the answering machine is blinking and he listens to Chloe tell him angrily that she's staying with Lois until he apologizes for his inappropriate behavior.

Elucidation

Rose stems are sharp with thorns between his fingers. The air is redolent of flowers, fresh, sweet, tainted with apology. He can't remember what he did, what _**it**_ did, but incipient heartbreak lingers in the atmosphere, entering and exiting his body with each inhale and exhale. A toy car sits lifelessly in his left palm, a gift for Eli, bright red with shiny wheels, toddler friendly, without choking hazards. His recollections of the last twelve hours are hazy, fogged, darkness and empty spaces, voids that can't be filled. He _needs_ her back, needs his son back, so badly his chest aches and his bones feel heavy, shapes of lead beneath his skin.

"Well, what do you know, it's the jackass." Lois greets him with a snarl and _**it**_ throbs with the desire to strangle her, wring hands around her neck until breathing ceases and bruises mark the unhealthily tanned skin.

"Where are Chloe and Eli?" He enters the apartment without asking, gently moving Lois aside despite the overwhelming desire to kill and draw blood and make someone hurt as much as _**it**_ is hurting. _**It**_ has lost its master and _**it**_ is surprisingly upset about it.

"She's giving him a bath." Lois crosses her arms across her chest, indignant expression, as though she is somehow personally involved in his and Chloe's personal life.

"Wawa!" He can hear Eli babbling, soft splashes of water, mellifluous laughter.

"Water Eli. Wa-ter." Chloe explains slowly; Davis can almost see her smile.

"Wa-er." Chloe chuckles, he doesn't have to look into the bathroom to know she's placing a kiss on Eli's cheek. "Dada!" Eli waves to him from the bathtub, droplets of water glistening on his skin, Chloe's sleeves are soaked up to her elbows.

"Roses, somehow I don't think thorns and cellulose and chlorophyll is going to make me feel better." She brings the flower to her nose to hide a half smile, a tiny flash of white. There's a bruise on the lower left side of Chloe's jaw, a spot of purple. He hopes he isn't the one who's caused it. _**It**_ has always been enamored with Chloe but if what not-Chloe said is true, then _**its**_ attachment to Chloe has vanished.

"I can buy you something else." Chloe laughs, faint amusement gleaming in green eyes.

"I imagined you'd be better at apologizing."

"Knowing what I did would help." He settles to his knees beside her, rolls up his sleeves and tickles Eli's stomach, splashes warm water at the toddler.

"You don't remember?"

"I told you that I have black outs, I can't even remember leaving your office after lunch." Confessing and exposed and vulnerable, his heart in his hands.

"Oddly enough, that explains everything. You weren't yourself." Chloe hugs him, pressed flush against him. He can't imagine what he did to her that she would consider leaving him for.

"What did…" A smooth, water warmed finger presses to his lips, a mouth touches his cheek.

"It doesn't matter."

She kisses his mouth, his chin, a heated line down his neck.

Termination

He loses chunks of time with an increasing frequency. When _**it**_ finally retreats to the recesses of his consciousness and he is once again aware of the world, minutes and hours and occasionally days have passed. Blood is never on his skin and the taste of copper is absent from his tongue. Chloe and Eli don't appear to notice, he's always greeted with kisses and hugs and little hands tugging at his pant legs. He's rapidly losing control, entering a downward spiral, after the incident with who Chloe called Brainiac _**it**_ is more powerful than he's ever imagined.

"Try convincing the hospital not to schedule you to work on Saturdays." Tousled, early morning blonde hair and sleepy green eyes, half open robe with one of his t-shirts beneath it. "Eli might not be able to play catch with you yet, but generally children should spend time with their fathers." Chloe scrambles Eli's eggs in a bowl, pours them into a pan, they hiss and sizzle and simmer.

"I know, I'll talk with the shift supervisor today." A brush of smooth lips across his, teasing dart of warm tongue. "Bye Eli, be good for mommy." He leans down to kiss his son and Eli stuffs a Cheerio up his nose, giggles happily.

"Bye dada." Eli waves to him, a chubby hand and little fingers. Saturdays are going to be something to look forward to, hours of time with his family, moments _**it**_ is incapable of stealing from him. _**It**_ has robbed his life of an ambiguous amount of time that accumulates roughly to a year.

-

A miasma of excruciating pain, the crackling of cartilage and bone, the flavor of stale copper. He opens his eyes and the world slowly comes into focus, black asphalt, grey garbage cans, and crimson blood. He pushes himself up on unsteady arms, a deep ache in his thoracic cavity, splintered solid calcium and phosphorus poking spongy lungs.

"Clark?" Red bubbles from his mouth, splatters wetly on the ground. Clark is on his knees, bruised and broken, a deep cut in his abdomen, exposed muscle. "What…." It hurts to talk; he braces himself against the pavement on his palms. "What happened?"

"You were destroying the city. I had to stop you." Clark coughs; the gash in his stomach begins to heal.

"I can't be stopped." He spits blood, hot, bitter tasting metal. "How many people did I kill?"

"Sixty-eight." His heart cracks into pieces and there is no amount of good in the world he can do to set this right.

"You have to kill me Clark." He begs, gasping for air, bone piercing alveoli.

"No." Clark is completely healed, he shakily stands upright."I won't do that to Chloe and Eli."

"Please." An arm wraps around broken ribs. "While _**it**_ can't fight back."

"No." Clark attempts to pull him to his feet. He shrugs away the contact, growls low in the back of his throat.

"I don't know how much longer I can fight _**it**_ Clark." If Clark is a good man he'll do what is necessary to save the world, to save Chloe and Eli, give his son a future. Clark only stares at him, apologetic blue eyes. The shard of glass is cool between his fingers. "Tell Chloe and Eli I love them."

One smooth jerk and superheated then cooled sand severs his jugular and trachea.

* * *

**Please review if you read.**


End file.
